


Hidden Beneath a Summer Sky

by shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-05-18 16:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19338058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/pseuds/shadows_of_1832
Summary: “You think I’m hurt for this?” she asks, setting down her mug. “You’ve probably broken many hearts by your mere presence, but even so, you’ve done me no harm. I don’t see any reason to be concerned about future interactions.”“I see.”“As long as we agree to never speak of it to anyone.”-They agreed to never speak of it again, nor to tell anyone what happened that night in July 1830. Best to forget it, better off to forget, but oh, how Life loves throwing her mistakes in her face.





	1. The Gamine and The Cynic

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a little story concept that's been swimming around in my mind for years, and I mean, years. I have quite a few false starts with it, and even this one took awhile to get down. This will have two parts, and the writing of part two is almost done. I was going to divide into three, but then the final part was going to be way longer than the rest and that didn't sit well me.
> 
> Any grammatical errors and the like are mine.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

**I. The Gamine**

July 1830. Candles fill the room. The smells of brandy and wine hangs in the air, the alcohol passed around in pints and mugs and bottles. The laughter and joyous cheers. Music. Dancing. Singing. All in a little upstairs room of an old café.

Eponine twirls around from Courfeyrac’s hand and into Marius’ arms, smiling. Her mind drifts for moment, foggy with wine, staring up into his eyes. _Let it stay this way_ , she thinks, _don’t let this moment end_. She turns around, a few steps to the left, to the right, and it’s over as she’s twirled once again into the arms of another Ami.

When the music stops, she curtsies with an exaggerated flair, and sits down, reaching for the nearest bottle of wine.

“Haven’t you downed enough of that tonight, Miss Jondrette?”

She stares her questioner in the eye, and takes a swig from the bottle and sets it down. “You’d be a hypocrite for judging me, Grantaire. Besides, it’s a night of celebration. I don’t get much fun like this.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “The daughter of an innkeeper who can’t find a bottle of wine.”

“Former innkeeper, mind you,” she dismisses. “I don’t get much of anything these days. With these meetings, I take what little I can get.”

“Yes, because it’s not just to stare at Pontmercy.” She turns to glare at him, but he shrugs. “I have eyes, Eponine. Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Who said I was playing dumb?” She takes another swig of the bottle. “Am I not allowed some curiosity as to what you boys think of the world, what your views are for this world, this France?”

“We’ll see how it goes.” He turns to the corner of room where three men stand. “Interesting, even Enjolras is partaking in tonight’s festivities.”

“You say that like the man never has a bit of fun.”

“Because he doesn’t—He’s too focused on ‘changing the world’ and ‘progress’ to think about anything otherwise.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Eponine says. “He cares about the people, even those like me who are dirt beneath his feet.”

Grantaire sighs. “He cares too much, perhaps. Focusing on change is one thing, but it’s another to be so absorbed in your work to ignore the obvious happenings around you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The music starts up again, and Grantaire remains silent as an enthusiastic Feuilly pulls her back into the dancing. 

* * *

 She wakes up in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar bed. She spots a shattered wine bottle on the floor, some of its contents spilling onto discarded clothes and abandoned notes on parchment. A window shines in the bright light of the morning sun, and she squints.

There’s the soft breathing of another beside her, likely the owner of whatever lodgings she was in. Too many personal effects for an inn.

She turns over, the figure beside her still asleep, and her eyes widen. She reaches for the blond hair obscuring her view of the face and brushes it aside, confirming her suspicions.

“ _Merde_ ,” she whispers, then gets to her feet, searching for her clothes on the floor. She cannot stay here, will not, and she hopes no one caught her coming here with him; he’d resent her for it, were rumors to go around.

She trips over a pair of trousers as she puts on her skirt, letting out a yelp as she falls to the floor. He sits up in the bed and reaches for the book on his nightstand, but pauses when she makes eye contact with him.

“Good morning, Enjolras,” she says from the floor, covering herself with his discarded shirt.

“Mademoiselle Jondrette?” His eyebrows furrow, leading her to believe he has not yet grasped the occurrences of the previous night.

Eponine reaches for the trousers and makes an attempt to toss them to him. “You might want these.”

“Pardon?”

She gestures to the clothes on the floor, then to the bed. She watches as he puts together the pieces, and sighs.

“My apologies,” he says, turning his head away. “There’s a bathroom right outside the door, should you desire to change your clothes with privacy.”

“What does it matter? You’ve seen everything.”

He places a hand on his forehead and squints when the sunlight hits his eyes. “Let me rephrase: please gather the reminder of your clothes and put them on in the other room.”

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, monsieur,” she smirks, throwing him his shirt then picking up the rest of her clothes.

* * *

 He offers her a cup of tea and the two sit at the small table by the window of the kitchenette. She stares at the happenings below, hearing muffled chatter through the window, blended with the sound of ceramic mugs being picked up and set down.

“We should talk,” he says, and she’s startled by the breaking of the silence.

She turns toward him. “What is there to discuss? What happened, happened, and will never happen again. I don’t see what should change.”

“I do not want you to feel as if you should not return to the Musain because you and I…” He waves his hand.

“You think I’m hurt for this?” she asks, setting down her mug. “You’ve probably broken many hearts by your mere presence, but even so, you’ve done me no harm. I don’t see any reason to be concerned about future interactions.”

“I see.”

“As long as we agree to never speak of it to anyone.”

* * *

 Grantaire chokes on his glass of brandy.

“You two did what?!” he whispers, his eyes scanning the room to make sure no one overheard.

“It was an accident, and it will never happen again,” Eponine says. “Nor will we speak of it again.”

“You tell me that, then expect no further inquiries?”

“Yes, I do, because you’re among the few I trust enough to keep their trap shut, even after ten bottles of whisky,” she replies, turning her head to where Enjolras, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac are looking over a map. “As far as him and I are concerned, we’re the only two that know of it—don’t imply to him that you know something.”

“I’ve got it. Keep my mouth shut. Never mention it again. Better off forgetting about it.” Grantaire takes a sip from his glass.

“Yes.” Eponine looks to the floor. “Best to forget it.”

* * *

 Life would be easy if she could just forget. Forget about that night, forget about all of Life’s torments, forget about all the memories of pain and suffering. Life would be happier that way.

Ah, but Life likes to throw her mistakes back in her face.

“Eponine, this is fourth time this week you’ve been ill. I doubt you’re all right,” Azelma says, holding her hair back from the chamber pot. “Any of those friends doctors? Perhaps they could check, make sure you aren’t dying, because from what I can tell, that’s what it looks like.”

Eponine responds after a breath. “It’s just something I ate. It happens when you go looking for scraps.”

“I’m worried; you haven’t kept much down. In the seventeen years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen that.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Azelma huffs. “Fine, my arse. Maybe I should tell Maman…”

“No!” Eponine says, then throws up once more. “Just give it time, please. If I’m still ill next week, then we’ll talk to her, alright?”

Azelma rolls her eyes and sighs. “Fine. One week.”

* * *

Her suspicions were confirmed by then. Eponine knew how much time had gone by since she bled, and combining that with her sickness was enough; she didn’t need a doctor to tell her that, and yet, one had.

“Not too far along,” the doctor tells her mother. “I would expect the child to be here late in the spring, early in the summer.”

Eponine shields her face from her mother’s glare, looking towards the blank wall. She knew she’d be in hell the moment the doctor left.

“Thank you, good monsieur.” Madame Thenardier escorts the doctor from the room and into the stairwell. “And I appreciate not costing us a sous.”

The door closes by the time Eponine gets to her feet, Azelma beside her, and Madame Thenardier walks straight toward Eponine and grabs hold of her wrist. She expects to either be tossed across the room or slapped in the face, and braces herself, but nothing comes.

“Did your father force you to the streets again?” her mother asks, her voice gentle.

Eponine’s eyes widen.

“That greedy bastard!” she says through clenched teeth, and releases Eponine’s wrist. “Subjecting his daughter to that!”

Eponine watches as her mother glances at the door at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, then back at her.

“Do not breathe a word of this to your father, either of you.” Madame Thenardier looks both of her daughters in the eye. “I don’t want to know what he’d do if he knew.”

* * *

**II. The Cynic**

“Grantaire, I have to go away for awhile.”

He pours himself a glass of wine. “So that’s why you knocked on my door in the middle of the night? To tell me you’re leaving?”

She plays with the worn edges of her skirt as she sits on the couch. She brings her gaze to the floor, seeing him out of the corner of her eye as he sits down in the chair.

“It’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?”

She lifts her head, pursing her lips. He stands up and sits down next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. Tears begin to sting her eyes, and when she tries to speak, the words are lost on her tongue.

“You know you can tell me, right?”

She nods, choking on a sob as she leans into his chest, seeking comfort. Her body shakes, trying to even out her breath, to find the words to speak, but they fail her. Instead, she takes his hand and places it on her stomach, then looks up, waiting for his response.

Grantaire’s eyes flicker downward to his hand, and in the candlelight, Eponine sees his face go pale.

They sit there like this for a time. Rain begins to patter against the window. He remains frozen, his eyes blank as he processes the information given to him. Her eyes shift around the room, from the few burning candles to the pile of books stacked in the far corner of the room to the floor.

“It’s his, isn’t it?”

She nods, her breath shaking as she replies, “Yes, yes, it is.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “What are you going to do?”

“Stay with my mother’s sister just outside Paris until they’re born,” Eponine replies, her hands playing with the edges of her skirt again. “The child will remain there, and she’ll raise it as her own.”

“What are Enjolras’ thoughts on this?”

“I don’t need his thoughts on the matter,” she replies, leaning back on the couch. “He doesn’t need to know.”

Grantaire’s brows furrow. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not ruining him with this; let me be the sole person to fall.”

“He would help you, you know that.”

“I’m not placing this burden on him—there’s more important things for him to be concerned about.”

“You’re not going to tell him anything, are you?” Grantaire asks.

“No, and I would prefer you didn’t him, either,” Eponine begs. “Let that be my choice, if/when he finds out.”

“Alright,” he says, pulling her in for a hug. “He won’t hear it from me.”

* * *

 The late autumn breeze sweeps in through the window of the Café Musain. All is normal: chatter, a few bottles of wine and brandy spread out among the tables, papers scattered, minor quarrels, the smoke of someone’s pipe.

Grantaire has decided to keep his mouth shut tonight, and instead place himself in a corner to observe the happenings tonight brings. Joly gestures to Combeferre about something on his arm. Courfeyrac leans back in a chair, talking as Bahorel writes something down. Jehan sits by the window with a book. Bossuet looks over something handed to him by Marius. Feuilly and Enjolras stand side by side, exchanging notes.

A typical evening in the café when nothing is being discussed.

Marius walks over to him, pausing for a moment to search the café. “Have you seen Eponine?”

Grantaire shakes his head. Such questions have been on repeat for weeks.

“It’s odd for her to disappear,” Marius says as he grabs a chair and sits down. “I have not seen her around the Gorbeau House, either. I know her family’s there, I have seen them about, but her, it’s as if she vanished. I hope her father did not get her caught in one of his schemes; she suffers enough because of him.”

“I’m sure she’s fine, Pontmercy; she knows how to take care of herself,” Grantaire replies, taking a sip of brandy. “Could be laying low for awhile for whatever reason as a precaution.”

“I suppose.” Marius shrugs. “I only fear something awful has become of her.”

“There is the possibility, but I doubt she’d let such a thing happen.”

“Her father’s an awful man, Grantaire, greedy enough to sell her for pocket change.” Marius reaches for the bottle of brandy, only for his hand to curl up in a fist before it reaches the glass. “I’d report every plan I hear through the wall if I did not owe him a debt.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “A debt, you say?”

“He’s the man who found my father after the defeat at Waterloo,” Marius says, his eyes downcast. “I made a promise to my father after he died to be grateful to him, but the longer I know him the more I’d rather wish he’d been stricken down by a bayonet.

“Eponine, because of that promise, has become a sister to me.” Marius takes a deep breath. “If something bad happened to her, whether it was something caused by her father or not, I would feel terrible for not protecting her.”

Grantaire purses his lips, fighting the urge to explain the truth of Eponine’s disappearance to him. The look of worry on Marius’ face makes it appear that he is fighting his tears.

“You’ll tell me if you see her, won’t you?” Marius asks with a wavering voice.

Grantaire nods.

The evening passes on uneventful otherwise until he and Enjolras are the only ones left.

“I have to close up,” Enjolras says as he gathers books and papers. “Are you able to walk home on your own, or have you had so much brandy you cannot see five feet in front of you?”

Grantaire scoffs. “Good to know you care.”

“You say that as if I should not.”

“Because you’re usually too absorbed in whatever it is you’re fighting to care about much else.”

“If you do not like the political discussions, you do not have to be here,” Enjolras replies, gathering the empty bottles. “Your presence only trods on the spirit. Tell me, Grantaire: what caused your negativity towards a better tomorrow?”

“A few too many situations where what was happy became terrible,” Grantaire answers. “It’s only being realistic, Enjolras. You think the people would be willing to rise up again against the King of the French before they have wiped the blood of July off their faces. It’s taken forty years to rebel against the result of 1789, yet in a matter months, you expect them all to be at arms again?”

“If the people believe that he has taken a step too far, it is only a matter of time.”

“But will they have the courage to take the risk?”

“That will be for them to decide, but the people will do what is right.”

“I pray you’re right.”

Enjolras huffs, then resumes cleaning up the room. “Have you heard from Eponine as of late? I have a few topics I would like her thoughts on.”

Grantaire sighs. “I’ll tell you what I’ve told everyone else: no.”

Enjolras nods. “I hope she is all right.”

“I’m sure she’s fine.” Grantaire passes the empty glass bottle in front of him from side to side, the bottom scraping on the wooden surface of the table. “She’s lived on the streets for most of her life, knows how to take care of herself. If something bad had happened, we all would’ve heard about it by now.”

Something passes by the front window, and Enjolras turns his head, then walks out to study the dark streets below.

“I promise you that you won’t find her there,” Grantaire calls to him. Enjolras, still for only a moment, leans forward against the front rail, his blond hair waving in the breeze.

“Quiet, silence, it can be unnerving,” Enjolras says, his voice almost lost to wind from where Grantaire sat. “Without her, it is as if we as a group have fallen silent. Out of fear for being wrong, out of concern for her, I know not, but her missing presence is felt.”

The chair scrapes across the floor as Grantaire stands. His feet brush against the floor as he walks toward Enjolras, whose head is bowed. He leans against rail beside him.

“You miss her?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras looks up, a faint, forlorn smile on his lips.

* * *

 August 1831. Heated discussions and debates. Conversations about what happened on rue Saint-Denis in June, what happened as a result of the elections in July. Some shouting and raised voices, but no violence.

Grantaire sits at a table in the corner, following his usual habits of swallowing the nearest bottle of alcohol. Combeferre is talking about how events may unravel due to the election results, a few pages of prepared notes in his hand. Enjolras nods. Feuilly interjects here and there, as does Joly.

The chatter falls silent when they hear footsteps coming up the stairs. A precaution to not get caught in traitorous activities.

Then her face appears.

Marius is the first to run to the stairs. “Eponine!”

Grantaire looks at her for a moment. She’s no longer thin, starving girl he had seen before. Her cheeks are not sunken in, nor are the bones visible to allow her to appear as a walking skeleton. In all the time he has known her, the gamine appears healthy.

The seriousness of the room vanishes, and the Amis crowd her, asking of her whereabouts and related topics.

“I was visiting my aunt,” she replies. “I needed the change of scenery.”

“A year’s quite a long time,” says Combeferre.

“We thought you were dead!” Joly says, and for a moment her eyes flicker to Grantaire.

_I kept my promise_.

Eponine shakes her head. “Nope, very much alive.”

“This is a cause for celebration!” yells Bahorel. “A friend of ours has come back from the dead. I’ll go see about a few extra bottles of wine.”

Enjolras raises his hand to interject, but no one takes notice, distracted by Eponine’s reappearance. Defeated, he walks over to Grantaire, and sits down at the table beside him.

“Are you going to greet her?” he asks, grasping Grantaire’s wrist to prevent another sip of brandy.

“I will when the others have settled down,” Grantaire replies.

“You do not appear surprised she has returned.”

“Has no one listened to a word I said? She’s a smart girl, knows her to care for herself. Why does her being alive seem to be a shock to you all?” Grantaire half-shouts, and Enjolras releases his wrist, his eyes wide. “This entire time I’ve been saying ‘she’s fine,’ and I feel as if no one has listened to a single word of it!

“Why should I be surprised? She was gone for a year, and despite not hearing a word, I knew her well enough to be fine. Are you too thick-headed to notice that?” Grantaire stands up, setting the bottle of brandy on the table and grabbing his coat. He walks past the crowd, rushes down the stairs, and walks out to the dark, Paris streets.

* * *

 Eponine knocks on his door at dawn.

The light is blinding when he opens his eyes and rises from bed. There’s a sharp pain in his head, and he squints at the light coming in through the windows. He reaches the door and opens it, and Eponine walks in and embraces him.

“It’s been too long,” she murmurs, then parts from him to sit on one of the aged dining chairs.

“I expected you back sooner,” Grantaire says, sitting across from her.

“I would’ve, but my aunt made me stay, care for the child for awhile; she hired a wet nurse after I insisted I must return here.” Eponine explains. “He’s about four months now.”

Grantaire nods. “A boy, then?”

“Yes. Lucien, after his father.” She smiles. “The spitting image of him, too, I think, but my aunt insists it’s my nose he has. Hair’s a bit darker than his father’s, but quite lighter than mine. His eyes, those are definitely his father’s…” She plays with the edges of her skirt.

“You miss him?”

“I do, but he’s much better with her; I can’t provide for him the way she can,” Eponine says. “She’ll take of him better than my own parents ever did with me.”

“Do your parents know you’ve returned?” Grantaire asks, leaning back in the chair.

“Yes.” Her gaze drifts to the floor. “Father isn’t happy I disappeared, and I don’t know what Mother told him. Got shoved around a bit, before Mother intervened. He doesn’t know about Lucien, though. With any luck, he never will.”

“If I know anything about your father, it’s that he pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“I only want to keep Lucien safe, and I want to keep Enjolras out of this as long as I can for his own protection. I don’t know what Father would do if he knew about my connection to either of them.”

“You cannot hide this from Enjolras for forever,” Grantaire tells her, reaching for her hand across the table.

“I don’t plan to,” she replies. “I’m trying to find a way to tell him. Give me time.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “Alright.”

* * *

June 1832. Plague runs through the streets of Paris. Political tensions have risen. General Lamarque is dead.

On the eve of the General’s funeral, the gamine speaks to the cynic in an alleyway beside the Musain.

“I want you to give this to him if I don’t make it.” She hands over a worn piece of parchment to him.

“Why don’t you go in there and tell him now?” he hisses, gesturing to the door.

“He’s got enough on his mind; telling him of Lucien now would be a distraction he doesn’t need!” She looks around. “If my life ceases before this is over, I don’t care if he’s polishing off his gun, you give that to him.”

“Eponine—”

“I’m trusting you!” She straightens the cap on her head and dashes off into the dark.


	2. The Father

**III. The Father**

“No, Eponine…no…”

Rain pours over the cobblestone streets, the water mixing with the dark crimson blood. Marius sits there, weeping into the fallen gamine’s shoulder, while Enjolras looks on.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was not supposed to be here. She was not supposed to die.

Yet she had, taking a bullet intended for Marius.

It had happened so fast. They had discovered the spy when they heard the National Guard approaching. The command of “Fire!” had everyone shooting for their lives. Marius had grabbed a barrel of gunpowder and a fire torch just as someone had shoved Enjolras out of the way at the cry of “Snipers!” Eponine must have noticed a gun Marius had not seen, and took hold of the gun’s barrel and pointed it away from him in time to save him, but not herself.

“Poor girl,” Feuilly says, removing his hat and holding it against his chest. “Too young for this.”

But weren’t they all?

Enjolras kneels down in front of Marius, Combeferre behind him, trying to keep his emotions in check. His eyes sting and his chest aches as if someone had struck him.

“I am going to take her into the café,” Enjolras murmurs. “I will see to it she receives a proper burial when all of this is over.”

Marius nods, and it’s clear in his eyes he’s reluctant to let the gamine go, but nonetheless he shifts to allow Enjolras to pick her up and carry her, while Combeferre sits down beside Marius to comfort him.

“You were not supposed to be here, you foolish girl,” he whispers into her blood-matted hair. “You did not deserve to die.”

He walks past the spy and into the back room, sheltered from any further harm dealt by cannons and bullets. He sets her down on the floor, and kneels beside her.

“I am going back to fight. I will keep my promise, though. I will make sure you do not end up in an unmarked grave. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.” He leans and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well, dear Eponine.”

He folds her hands over her chest, then rises to his feet to leave the room, looking back once before closing the door behind him.

Grantaire leans against the wall, holding a spot on his head from hitting the wall when he had been thrown by the spy.

“Bastard,” he hisses, his gaze on the floor.

“So you have not abandoned us?” Enjolras asks, stopping to speak to him. “I thought you did not believe in this fight.”

“I will follow where you ask,” Grantaire replies, looking up. “You’re covered in gunpowder.”

“You missed the first attack,” Enjolras says, looking towards the back room door.

“Something the matter?” Grantaire glances between him and the door. “What happened?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “We lost Eponine. Took a bullet to save Marius’ life.”

“She’s…she’s gone?” Grantaire shakes his head. “She…”

“There was nothing Combeferre and Joly could do for her.”

Grantaire slides down the wall until he is sitting on the floor. “She knew this all along.”

“Pardon?”

“She knew she wouldn’t see past tomorrow.” Grantaire reaches into his waistcoat and pulls out an old piece of parchment, holding it out for Enjolras. “Told me to give this to you were something to happen to her.”

Enjolras takes the folded parchment from his hand, opens it, then scans the contents.

“I told her to tell you sooner, would’ve made it easier on herself if she had,” Grantaire says.

“This cannot be…” Enjolras shakes his head. “How…she…why?”

“Didn’t want to trouble you, I suppose.”

“You knew? You could have said something.”

“Wasn’t my secret to tell.”

Enjolras stares at the words on the page, and stumbles back into the wall. “Be serious—this is not some scheme you two plotted against me. Now is not the time for it.”

“She and I might have our jokes, but this is not one of them. You have my word,” Grantaire says, wiping blood from his brow. “It would be too cruel to impose fatherhood on you with no sincerity.”

Enjolras sits down. “I did think of it peculiar when she went off for a time. Never did it occur to me this was why.”

A pause.

Grantaire sighs. “She meant well, not telling you. Feared if you knew, her father would soon after. She didn’t want the child to be used in a bargain against you.”

The candles in the room still burn, but the room only gets darker and colder.

“I will never see him,” Enjolras says. “The battle ahead will not allow it.”

“We’ll be fine without you, but Lucien will not be.” Grantaire places a hand on his shoulder. “He’s lost his mother today; don’t make him an orphan.”

“I will not abandon anyone here.” Enjolras gets to his feet, and folds the parchment into his coat pocket. “I have walked too long on this path to turn back now.”

“Enjolras—”                                                                                                                                           

“Do not try to change my mind.” Enjolras starts for the entrance.

Grantaire scoffs. “I knew it. You are too absorbed in your desire for change that you would ignore your personal matters.”

Enjolras stops, and turns to glare at Grantaire. Then, he continues his way out.

A distraction. This is all it will be to him.

* * *

Dawn arrives, and when Feuilly returns from his reconnaissance, the news is not good.

“We’re the only ones left.”

The next hour is a bloodbath.

Cannons blast the barricade, sending splinters everywhere. Bullets fly by Enjolras’ head, sometimes striking those behind them. He urges the surviving to find shelter. Men continue to collapse. There’s shouting and cries of terror. His face is covered in blood that may or may not be his own, as well as gunpowder and sweat.

The remaining men run upstairs and break apart the wooden stairs. Feuilly throws glass bottles of nitric acid and throws them down at the National Guardsmen until he is struck down. Bullets rise from the floor and strike those above them, and Enjolras is alone.

He finds himself at the wrong end of at least fifteen rifles, backed against the wall by the front window.

“I’m sorry, Eponine,” he whispers. “I failed you, Lucien.”

He hears the determining click. He takes a deep breath, focusing on their commander.

Grantaire emerges from downstairs, and approaches him. He stands beside him, and grasps his hand.

“You foolish man,” he says.

The guns ring out, and Grantaire shoves him back, causing his head to hit the wall behind him.

* * *

Water. Dripping water.

Enjolras opens his eyes to bright sunlight pouring over a hole-covered blanket. A young woman squeezes water from a rag and into a bucket, and dabs his forehead with it.

“There you are,” she whispers. “Good thing, too. Mother wouldn’t want to explain why we had the corpse of someone like you.”

He squints, turning his head towards her. Behind her, he notices a blanket covering something on the floor. From underneath, dark hair.

“My sister,” says the woman, glancing at the floor. “Found her by herself in the backroom of where I found you. You must’ve known her.”

“Eponine?” he croaks, and the woman offers him some brandy, not having much to give in terms of anything to drink. He sits up from the floor, hisses from pain in his shoulder.

“Careful! You’ll reopen it!” she warns, leaning to adjust what at one time were nice pillows. “Don’t want any more blood on the floor as there is. Doctor had a nasty time getting the bullet out. Lucky there’s no infection as of yet.”

“Eponine…” he murmurs, then his eyes go wide. “The note. Lucien. My coat! Mademoiselle, where is my coat?”

“On the other side of you. Mother wanted to burn it, but I stopped her. I suppose it’s a good thing I did.”

He moves to get up. “I have to find him.”

She grabs his arm. “You will be doing no such thing, not anytime soon. You’ll have plenty of time to find that Lucien of yo—oh.”

Enjolras lays back down. “Forgive me. I only found out after she…”

Both of them turn their heads to where Eponine’s body lay. The woman turns back towards him, her eyes red.

“I want to pay for her burial,” he says. “After all she has done, it is the least I could do.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I do not want her in an unmarked grave.”

“It is very kind of you, but I doubt my parents would allow that.”

“Mademoiselle Jondrette.” He reaches for her hand. “Please.”

She hesitates to pull her hand away. “It’s up to them, not me. My father will try to rid you of every sous, just a warning.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

* * *

Three days later, there’s upturned earth beneath his feet and a gray sky overhead. Azelma, dressed in black, acts as his support, him leaning against her as they stare at a headstone.

_Eponine Thenardier_

_February 13, 1812 – June 5, 1832_

“She would wound me for this if she knew,” he says with a small smile. “She never liked charity.”

Azelma nods. “No, she didn’t, but I’m sure she’d appreciate the gesture.”

He limps on his cane towards the stone, and removes a white rose from his coat.

“Thank you,” he says, kneeling down and placing the flower in front of the stone. “For everything.”

He runs his fingers over the letters etched in stone, then rises to his feet. He takes a few steps back, his eyes staring at the grave. The wind blows past him, and he feels a drop of rain on his face.

“Shall we go now?” Azelma asks, offering him her arm.

He turns to her, taking in a deep breath. “Yes.”

He takes her arm and the pair of them leave, but he glances at the grave once more before it disappears from view.

* * *

The carriage ride outside the city is a long one. With the wound in his shoulder still healing as well as a gash on his leg from a bayonet, the bumpy roads do not ease the pain.

“Would you like some laudanum?” Azelma asks, already searching through her small travel bag.

Enjolras shakes his head, trying to remain focused on the novel in his lap instead of wincing from the pain. “I’ll manage; I would rather not be in a daze when we arrive.”

“Your choice.” She shrugs, and she turns back to her gaze out the window.

A few moments of silence pass.

Azelma turns her gaze away from the window, her fingers fiddling with her skirt. “May I be forward with you, Monsieur Enjolras?”

Enjolras’ eyes glance towards her, his head still bowed. “Depending on the subject, you may have earned the right.”

The younger Jondrette girl nods. “My sister, did you love her?”

He lifts his head and closes the book. He leans back in his seat.

Did he love her? Such a forward question indeed. A question he didn’t have an immediate answer for.

She was a dear friend, a companion who deserved better than what Life had given her, deserved more than a life of rags and lonely streets. Anything out of charity refused, and trust, she earned of everyone in the upstairs of the old café.

Her disappearance had affected them all, and her return, welcomed.

Would it have been selfish to say he was more grateful than anyone of her return? Not only to know her thoughts, but to have her presence and spirit? To know of her being undamaged further by the streets on which she lived? And by him?

…Except he had done damage, damage he has only known for a few days now. How scared she must have been. And to not tell him, she must have feared the worst. With her gone now, a part of her remains still, no longer hidden from him, and how is he to handle that beyond today?

That one night, he wonders still of all that was said, despite the alcohol in their blood. He recalls flashes; them left alone in the café and lips pressed against one another and not knowing who started it, walking along the cobblestone streets, a warm embrace on the stairs of his apartment building, her closing and locking his unit door with a sly smirk, the way her hair fanned out on his bed and how her fingers trailed along his skin and kept him close…

Did he feel any different before that night? Did he feel the same then as he did now?

“Monsieur Enjolras?” Azelma calls him out of his thoughts.

“My apologies,” he says. “I...She was a dear friend, one I will miss until my last breath. To say I loved her, I have no way of denying any feelings towards her.”

“Is that a yes?”

“An indefinite one.”

* * *

It is almost evening by the time the carriage stops in front a stone cottage, candles burning in its windows. Azelma hops out of the carriage first, then turns to assist Enjolras, who is determined to not put a lot of weight on his left leg.

“The wound didn’t reopen, did it?” Azelma asks as he makes his down.

“It feels as if it might have,” he replies, hissing when both of his feet touch the ground. “It was jostled around enough.”

“I’ll take a look when we get inside,” she replies, picking up what little luggage they had. “It’s about time we changed the dressing anyway.”

The carriage drives off, and he looks down the path leading up to the door for a few moments. This was it.

“Does your aunt know who I am?” he asks.

Azelma takes a few steps forward and pauses. “I believe she does. Eponine trusted her more than Mother. She might not know your face, but I’m certain she knows your name.”

“Will she hate me?”

“I can’t answer that. I don’t know how much Eponine told her.”

Enjolras breathes in, then limps forward. No way to turn back.

Azelma knocks on the door. There’s rustling to be heard from the inside, followed by some muttering. When the door opens, a middle-aged woman appears, dressed in clothes that had seen better days and were covered in patches. She smiles.

“Azelma, my dear, how are you?” The woman steps forward and hugs her.

“Well, Aunt Claire, thank you! And you?”

“Managing,” she replies, “Lucien’s quite the handful these days, but aren’t all children?”

“I suppose so,” Azelma replies with a smile. She takes a step back. “Aunt Claire, might I introduce you to Monsieur—”

“Lucien Enjolras, I know,” the older woman mutters. Enjolras’ brows furrow. “It’s the eyes, monsieur. There’s few like them.”

“I see,” Enjolras says.

Claire looks him up and down, observing the cane and his arm in a sling. “What fight were you in?”

“The barricades following Lamarque’s funeral,” he replies, peering behind her.

“Revolutionary.” She huffs, and turns to Azelma. “It appears your mother’s taste in men was hereditary, the battle-seeking kind. At least your sister picked an honorary sort, speaking of which, where is she? It’s been a few months since she was here.”

Azelma glances at Enjolras, whose gaze turns to the ground.

“I believe it would be best to discuss it inside,” Enjolras suggests. “If that is of no conflict?”

Claire narrows her eyes at him for a moment, then gestures for them to come inside. She reaches for Azelma’s bags, and sets them down inside next to the door.

“Azelma, go ahead and take a seat,” Claire says, still watching Enjolras. “I’ll grab a chair for you, monsieur.”

“If you don’t mind, Aunt Claire, I need to check his wounds, make sure they didn’t reopen on the ride here,” says Azelma.

Claire hesitates. “The monsieur can’t afford his own caretaker?”

“One is not necessary,” Enjolras replies, bracing himself against the doorframe.

“As true as that is, the doctor said you should still be in bed for another week or more,” Azelma says, taking his arm to guide him to the sofa. She turns to Claire. “He’s insisted he’s wasted too much time.”

“Where’s Lucien?” Enjolras asks.

“Resting, and as my understanding is, so should you,” Claire snaps, then looks at Azelma. “You know what to do?”

Azelma nods. “The doctor showed me how. Been doing it for a few days now. What I need is in one of the bags.”

“I’ll leave that to you then,” says Claire. “I’ll be in the kitchen finishing dinner if you need me, or if the monsieur tries anything.”

“Aunt Claire!” Azelma’s eyes go wide, her cheeks turning red.

“I have a right to be wary of him, my dear,” she replies, walking away. “Considering what happened with your sister.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, only to hiss when Azelma brushes the gash on his leg.

“Sorry.”

* * *

Enjolras sits down on the sofa, looking at the woman staring him down from the opposite end of the room. Azelma’s eyes flicker between them.

“So,” Claire says finally, “where’s Eponine?”

He swallows, and his throat runs dry. The weight on his shoulders grow heavier, and he turns his gaze to the floor.

Azelma’s eyes tear up.

“What is it?” Claire asks.

Azelma exhales, her breath shaking. “She…she’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?” Claire looks between the both of them, then narrows her eyes towards Enjolras. “What have you done?”

“He…she…it wasn’t like that,” Azelma says. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“She…she took a bullet to chest,” Enjolras says, thinking about the event, staring at the floor. “A close friend was making an attempt to save us all at the barricade, but he didn’t see the gun pointed at him. She grabbed the barrel and…she could not turn it away from herself in time.”

The older woman’s eyes go wide, and she places a hand upon her chest.

“She did not suffer for long, if it eases your mind to know.” He lifts his head. “She is buried in _Cimetière Saint-Vincent_ should you wish to visit her.”

Silence.

Claire shakes her head. “My word…”

“Would you like me to get you some tea?” Azelma asks.

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

Enjolras waits a few moments before speaking. “She was not afraid, and it is because of her sacrifice that I have come here.”  ~~~~Enjolras reaches into his coat and removes the tattered parchment. He stands up and hands it to Claire. “This was given to me after she passed.”

He sits down as Claire reads the note, moments of silence passing by. Azelma takes hold of Enjolras’ hand. He tenses up at the touch, then relaxes.

He stares at parchment, watching the movement of Claire’s hands as she reads it. The parchment has become the most important piece to the entire ordeal, and the last words of Eponine he will ever read.

The older woman puts the parchment down on the end table beside her. She takes a deep breath, then turns her attention towards him.

“She never said a word to you?”

“Of this? Not once,” he replies.

“Hm,” she says, a corner of her lip upturned. 

His eyes flicker to the floor, then back up at the older woman.

“The boy’s sleeping now, I shouldn’t let you disturb him,” Claire says, her eyes soft but her voice stern, “and you do need your rest, monsieur, between what happened last week and your journey today.”

Enjolras nods, and there’s a weight in his chest he realizes had not been there earlier. The screams, the terror, their panicked faces covered in gunpowder and dripping with blood, they flood his mind once more. Eponine, bleeding out at the base of barricade, a hole in her chest. His own wound, had it shifted a few inches, would have lead him to a similar fate.

His breath shakes as he exhales.

“Are you all right?” Azelma asks, placing a hand on his shoulder.

A pause.

“I…I will be.”

* * *

He awakes to the sound of pans clattering in the kitchen. He hisses as he stretches on the couch, forgetting about the wound in his shoulder. When he opens his eyes, he sees steel blue ones staring back at him with curiosity.

A small hand reaches for his face, but disappears with soft thud.

With stiffness in his limbs, he sits up, meeting the gaze of inquisitive young eyes, so similar to his own. Dark blond waves of surround Lucien’s head, still short but once longer would become curls. The sunlight coming in from the window reflects off the child’s hair, reminding him of the soft glow of candlelight.

The rustle of fabric entering the room causes him and the child to look up, Azelma carrying a tray of steaming water and cups for tea. She sets the tray down on the end table, then reaches for Lucien and picks him up in her arms.

“Eponine was right; he does look very much like you,” Azelma comments as she sits on the couch beside him, then proceeds to bounce the child on her lap. Lucien lets out a high-pitched screech of laughter.

But he sees Eponine, too. Lucien’s eyes, while strikingly blue like his, have a rounder, softer quality to them, something he doubts will fade as the child ages. When the child smiles, he catches a glimpse of the gamine in joyous times.

Enjolras nods, recalling the night and dawn of that instance in July 1830. How strange it felt for him to continue as if nothing had happened, a part he had well-convinced himself playing but later dwelled upon the “what if.” Then to find out about this child, moments after Eponine’s passing, was this another way, another chance, Life had given him while They knew well of the consequences June 1832 would bring?

Among the list of questions he’ll never have answers to.

Claire walks into the room and pours out the cups of tea, a watchful eye towards her niece and grand-nephew. Her stare then turns to Enjolras. “Did you sleep well, monsieur?”

“Yes, thank you,” he replies, turning his gaze away from Lucien. 

“Good.” Claire sits up straight. “I know the accommodations weren’t the best, but as you can see, space is limited here.”

“Your generosity is much appreciated, madame, given the circumstances.”

She gives a curt nod before taking a sip of her tea. She sets down her cup. “Taking in account that you’re well-rested, I suppose now we should get to discussing a rather important matter at hand: Lucien.”

* * *

**_Eight years later…_ **

The ride from Toulouse to Paris is a long one, one young Lucien will not let his father forget.

The child had been fidgeting the entire carriage ride, books, paper, graphite, and the outside views of unseen countrysides and strange city streets not enough to cease the energetic mind. Enjolras more than once had asked of the youth to stop tossing balled pieces of paper at him.

“Remember, we are visiting your mother, then we’ll be staying with your Aunt Azelma for a few days. We’ll stop at your Great-Aunt Claire’s on the way back to break up the trip,” Enjolras had said as they departed Toulouse. “I’m sure both will be pleased to see how tall you’ve grown since last summer.”

The child had only shrugged.

The first trip to Paris had only been a few years back, and the streets had felt as unchanged as when Enjolras had left them with his blood splattered on its streets. His heart had sank at the emptiness of the Musain, windows broken and the building itself seemingly abandoned, never repaired from those bloody days in June. The two have stayed with Azelma each time, who now had a family of her own with her husband and two three-year-old girls, and another child was expected in the fall.

Two years ago, Enjolras had come upon the discovery of Marius Pontmercy’s survival, having come across the man while wandering the streets near the Musain to pay his yearly respects. The two have corresponded through letters at least once a month since, each informing the other of the political events of their respective cities as well as that of their families. Pontmercy had gone to marry the love of his life, a young woman called Cosette, with whom he had a son and a daughter. Enjolras had informed him of Lucien, and while Pontmercy had at first been taken aback by the revelation, he was nonetheless glad to see that a friend of his was alive and well.

Every return to Paris, Enjolras has visited _Cimetière Saint-Vincent_. Azelma has always taken care of Lucien for a few hours when he makes such visits. This time, Lucien will accompany him.

Following a brief detour to drop off their luggage at Azelma’s, Enjolras and Lucien make their way to Montmartre.

After informing the carriage driver they will need at least twenty minutes, Enjolras takes his son’s hand and walks through the cemetery’s gate.

Enjolras has told Lucien before about Eponine, but was unsure how much his son understood. The child claimed to understand what death meant, that a person was no longer living, no longer around to talk to or to share dinner with. As for the lack of a mother, Enjolras has always been at a loss for words beyond the explanation he did have one, but she passed away when he was still little.

“ _Maman_ ’s here?” Lucien asks as they walk down the path.

“She is,” Enjolras replies, releasing a breath. He looks down the path ahead, looking where a raised slab of stone marks Eponine’s final resting place.

The upturned earth from eight years ago has been covered with a few inches of raised marble, covering where her coffin laid beneath. The original headstone remains.

Enjolras stops in front of it. Lucien continues walking until the tug of his father’s still figure draws him towards where his father stares.

“ _Maman_?” Lucien asks, crouching down to inspect the marble.

“Yes,” answers Enjolras.

The child glances towards him. “She’s buried under this stone?”

“Yes.”

Lucien turns back to the stone, and runs his hand along the edge. “Papa?”

“Yes?”

“How did _Maman_ die?”

Enjolras walks over and kneels down beside him, placing a hand on top of the stone. “She died protecting Monsieur Pontmercy from a soldier.”

Lucien nods, eyes flickering from the headstone to his father’s face. “Was the soldier a bad man?”

“No, Lucien,” answers Enjolras, who turns to meet his son’s eyes. He reaches and touches Lucien’s cheek. “No, the soldier was not a bad man.”

“But he killed _Maman_!”

“I know, I know,” Enjolras replies, hearing the sadness in Lucien’s voice, and brings him in for a hug. “He was only doing his job. I don’t think he wanted to kill your mother, but in that moment, that was a part of his job. Not all soldiers are bad men, Lucien, I want you to understand this. What your mother and I and our friends did when she died was not something the government liked, I need you to try and understand that, but that does not make us bad people, and what the soldier did does not make him a bad man.”

The two break apart, and Enjolras looks into his son’s eyes. “You are allowed to be mad, Lucien, but please don’t be mad at the soldiers. I do not want you hating people who, while they have wronged you, may have not been doing it willingly.”

Lucien nods, rubbing his eyes with hand. He then goes back to looking at the grave.

Enjolras turns back to the grave, then reaches into his coat. His hand holds a red rose.

He twirls the flower by the stem in his hand, his eyes flickering between it and Eponine’s headstone. He places his free hand on the marble.

“I brought him this time,” he murmurs. “I thought it was time he knew.”

A part of him wishes Eponine were there to see. Would she be smiling, happy to know he had found Lucien, and was caring for him the best as he could without her? Would she be proud of him, proud of them?

He places the red rose on the marble, letting his fingers graze the marble. Despite the sun shining above in a clear sky, a drop of rain falls down his cheek.

Lucien moves to stand beside him. “Papa?”

“Yes?”

“Did _Maman_ love me?”

“Very much,” Enjolras replies, turning his head to Lucien. “She loved you more than anyone else.”

“More than you?”

Enjolras smiles, and places a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Yes, and in a different way.”

“Oh,” Lucien replies. “How?”

“I will explain another day,” Enjolras says. “Now, say goodbye to _Maman_ ; I told your aunt we would be back for dinner.”

Lucien nods, and waves towards the headstone. “Goodbye, _Maman_!”

The two start to walk away, Enjolras taking hold of Lucien’s hand, using his free hand to wave back at the stone. For moment, when he turns his head, Enjolras swears he sees Eponine, no longer in rags, watching them leave with a smile upon her face. However, when he blinks, all he sees near the marble is the rose he placed upon it.

He pauses in his steps.

“Everything all right, Papa?” Lucien asks when they stop.

Enjolras, who turns his head back to look at his son. “Yes, everything is well.”

The pair continue on, Enjolras glancing in her direction one more time before exiting the cemetery’s gates.


End file.
